


The Twelve Days Of Next Christmas

by AbigailKinney4life



Series: Christmas!Lock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-06 19:30:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5428034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbigailKinney4life/pseuds/AbigailKinney4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas day is approaching...which means that John and Sherlock's one year anniversary is almost upon them, but the year has gone very differently for the pair of them. Staggeringly well for John, not so great for Sherlock. Will the couple who worked so hard to be together be able to pull off another Christmas, or will the holidays be a less than cheerful time for them once again? Sequel to The Twelve Days Of Christmas</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 – Monday 14th December, 2015

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: So I had a fair few requests last year to create some form of News Years sequel for these two but I honestly had no time to write anything in time for the new year what with the holidays and relatives and all that so instead I decided to write a sequel set around next Christmas and here it is. I'd probably say that this can't be read as a stand alone fic because this is like the fallout of everything that happened last year. Much like last year, I'll post a chapter a day in the run up to Christmas. This is more a gift to myself than anyone else because I love JohnLock and I love Christmas but I hope you all enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing xxx

John entered his office, humming contentedly to himself as he slung his shoulder bag over the back of his chair and wandered off to the coffee machine.

He felt a sense of pride as he walked among the varying desks of the journalists tapping away at their desktops, knowing that he had his own office to disappear into and there was no more fretful hours spent working into the night trying to get a piece done in case he risked losing his job.

He'd made it.

Apparently, Sherlock wasn't the only one touched by his article about him last Christmas, it appeared to have touched the nation and before John knew it, it wasn't a raise he was getting, it was an editing position at the london-based political newspaper,  _Intuition._ He'd been initially nervous about making the leap from writing into editing but had accepted the job nonetheless, knowing that he couldn't spend the rest of this life working for Gregson. After a few weeks, he'd gotten used to the shift and found he actually enjoyed his work, it came with a sense of pride and accomplishment that he hadn't had before.

But that wasn't the only reason for John's perky mood that morning. As he watched coffee trickle into his cup he contemplated the upcoming holiday. Christmas was fast approaching and John was feeling festive. He couldn't help it, he still retained that excitement he'd had when he was a child and he and Harry had stayed up past their bed time, desperate to get a glimpse of Father Christmas as he passed.

Plus it was all the more enticing this year when he didn't have to host the Christmas party. He grinned smugly to himself as he took his coffee and walked back to his office, snagging a newspaper from one of the desks on the way back.

John collapsed into his own chair and opened the newspaper. It wasn't theirs, obviously, but  _Intuition_ was politically based and John had to find out about the other news somehow.

He smiled to himself at the picture of Lestrade and Sherlock on page six; a drugs bust in the lower-east side of London. They were commemorating Lestrade for his bravery and it had been a small albeit present news item for the last few weeks.

Of course, John's good mood also owed to something else as well. The general air of happiness he felt these days. Because the approach of Christmas also meant the approach of his and Sherlock's one year anniversary.

Some days John couldn't believe that they'd been together an entire year, or been as happy, but then other days it felt like no time at all. Like there would never be enough time.

It had truly been the best year of John's life.

…

Sherlock's year, however, hadn't been so great.

He cradled a coffee in one hand as he snagged an abandoned newspaper from a desk, making his way to his office in the Met. His face fell when he realised what newspaper it was. The _Westminister Herald,_ his boyfriend's old paper. But after John had left, they had taken a less than positive approach towards the detective and couldn't go a day without printing some kind of slanderous article.

He was pleasantly surprised to find that today, he'd made the front page.

**BRITAIN SAFE?**  Was all the headline read.

Sherlock scanned quickly through the article, picking out a few choice phrases as he went.

_Is this country safe...such a cold, heartless, strange example...an esteemed police force in ruin?..._

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he took a sip of coffee that was just a little on the warm side. This had been going on for months now. The moment he'd outed himself, as it were, with John Watson and returned to the truth of himself, his admittedly cold yet refreshingly normal self, the press had done what the press did best. It turned.

He'd been the subject of press slander for months, he assumed they would get bored and move on to something more interesting but apparently he was the juiciest story at present. Britain must have had little to do in 2015.

Also, this wasn't the first article that had called for him to be sacked.

Sherlock stopped walking as he contemplated such a thing and was momentarily surprised when Greg Lestrade patted him on the back.

"Don't worry about that." Lestrade said warmly. "You're not going to get sacked over press rubbish." The detective inspector went suddenly quiet. "Don't tell John I said that."

Sherlock laughed. "John's famous now for being the only journalist to ever write anything positive about me." He joked, acknowledging Irene Adler walking past them in the corridor.

"There's nothing positive about you." She bit back as she passed, eyes narrowing before she turned down the corridor and out of sight.

"Is she ever going to stop hating me?" Sherlock commented. Somewhat rhetorically.

"Probably not." Lestrade replied regardless.

As Lestrade poured himself a cup of coffee, probably one of the only allies he had left in the Met, he wondered if things were easier or harder before.

"So what does John make of all this crap?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to the newspaper in Sherlock's grip as if John Watson was some leading authority.

"He's more political now," Sherlock commented, "luckily much of it doesn't really pass through him anymore. But that's a good thing, it would break his heart otherwise."

Lestrade watched the dumb little smile come across Sherlock's face as he spoke of his boyfriend and shook his head minutely to himself, wondering exactly how anyone could call him heartless.

…

The Christmas market was in full swing that evening. Wooden shacks adorned with multi-coloured fairy lights were stood uniformly in rows throughout Trafalgar square. Some selling mince pies or olives and sweetmeats while others sold hand-made Christmas decorations or scented candles some unfortunate, unloved relative was sure to receive.

London's ice-blue Christmas lights twinkled in the starless sky and the annual tree stood proudly in the centre, next to a cheaply-constructed winter-wonderland where Father Christmas and his baby reindeer were amusing the small children gathered round, all swaddled in hats and scarves to fight the cold brought on by the blanket of snow that covered the ground as if Earth were its own wrapped present.

John stood leant against the back of a bench, the two hot chocolates in his hand the only source of warmth he had. But he didn't care. He was too busy watching the little children with the reindeer and imagined how magical it must have been for them. He imagined the day he would bring his own children to meet Father Christmas and hoped they liked it as much as he did.

John's reverie was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a tall, dark figure in a long coat.

"Hey, sorry I'm late." Sherlock apologised profusely, leaning forward and pressing a chaste, cold kiss to John's lips.

John took in Sherlock's appearance for a moment; eyes wide with sincerity, flakes of snow clashing with his ebony locks and nose tinged pink with the cold. John smiled as he reached up and kissed it, willing some warmth into it.

"It's okay." John smiled, handing Sherlock a hot chocolate which the detective accepted gratefully. "Did a case keep you back?" John asked sympathetically, grateful his new editing position afforded him at least some control over his hours.

Sherlock nodded. "Getting research information used to be a lot easier before..."  _Before people started hating me._ He bit his tongue and quickly changed tact. "...Before they changed the filing system." He finished lamely.

John slipped his gloved hand into Sherlock's and Sherlock contented himself with the knowledge that not everyone hated him.

The pair began a slow pace throughout the market stalls. John seemed quite content to look at anything and everything but Sherlock was far more content with watching John, he was like a child, his eyes went bright and he had a brilliant energy. He'd really been holding back how much he'd loved the holiday last year...but Sherlock supposed hosting a party for your entire family with no notice and having a looming article would stress anyone out.

"Why are we here?" Sherlock finally voiced grumpily, feigning boredom in an attempt to get his boyfriend's attention.

John, however, merely rolled his eyes.

"I thought you looooved Christmas." John replied sarcastically.

"Oh, you're funny."

"Some of us actually like Christmas." John supplied truthfully, knocking Sherlock playfully. "Some of us like to pretend we're normal."

Sherlock raised an accusing eyebrow. "You're not fooling anyone."

John knocked him again, painfully this time.

Sherlock disentangled himself from his boyfriend from fear of another attack and swivelled, admiring some of the Christmas baubles on sale. He didn't really mind all that much, but in all honesty, John was so cute when he was playfully teased.

"It's too early for this." Sherlock bitched grumpily, "Christmas is ages away."

"It's the fourteenth of December, you Grinch." John huffed. "I've been hearing Christmas music since November First."

Sherlock swivelled back to see John with his back to him, looking at one of the other stalls. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder. John didn't even flinch.

"Sorry." He said.

"You're cold, aren't you?" John voiced.

Sherlock hesitated. "Yes."

John laughed but would never wriggle free, quite content with Sherlock's arms around him, regardless of the reason.

Instead, he turned in the cocoon of Sherlock's embrace and wrapped his arms around the detective's neck, gloved fingers playing with his ebony curls.

Sherlock's piercing grey eyes looked down at him with a softness that John hadn't known before they'd gotten together.

"This year has gone too quick." He said, sounding glum.

Sherlock smiled lopsidedly as he placed a cold kiss to John's forehead. "Don't worry. We have a whole new year in a few weeks and all the time in the world."

John couldn't help smiling at the prospect and surged forward and kissed Sherlock. He recoiled immediately from Sherlock's icy mouth.

"You really are cold." He admitted, shocked.

"I told you." Sherlock pointed out.

"I guess you need...warming up." John said coyly before kissing him again. More prepared this time.

 


	2. Day 2 – Tuesday 15th December, 2015

The bitter cold of England in the winter season wasn't the only reason Sherlock was hurrying into the Met. the next morning, pulling his long coat tighter around his body as he side-stepped through the entrance to avoid a couple, simultaneously calculating the maximum of efficiency and the minimum of casualties. But his hasty entry, regardless of how safe it happened to be, was quickly ruined when he was lobbied by a few reporters gathered in the entrance hall like a flock of birds who'd finally found something to eat.

Sherlock quickly found that there was no receptionist on the desk which explained why the press hadn't been escorted out promptly as they usually were when they found they had little better to do than harass a man, and more widely a country-wide service, who was just trying to do his job.

Sherlock sighed as he tried to walk past them unheeded.

"Mr. Holmes." One of them began, shoving a microphone dangerously in his face. She was young, she couldn't have been older than 25 years old. "Is it true there have been calls for you to resign?"

Sherlock ignored her and tried to walk past but was momentarily blinded when an expensive flash went off in front of his face.

"Oh, for Christ sake." He said under his breath. He never said anything, but he knew that if he said something in the least bit aggressive then they would have an entirely new angle to take. Sherlock Holmes not only potentially dangerous but also physically and verbally violent, he could just see the headline in his minds eye and quickly vaulted past them and down the corridor to Lestrade's office before he could give them anything else to print.

He stopped an officer on his way.

"Can you get rid of the press in the reception, thanks." He said quickly, blinking his grey eyes against the persistent sun spots burned into his retinas.

The officer nodded and Sherlock watched him go the way he'd just come. Normally, he'd be happy to throw them out himself, he had no time for press, except one in particular, of course, but as his brain was quick to remind him, he was in a rush.

He opened the door to Lestrade's office without knocking, assuming that with the current situation the detective inspector could find it in his heart to forgive him, only to find Lestrade and Anderson inside, looking grim.

"A child?" Sherlock quickly prompted.

"Not quite." Lestrade replied. "Teenager, 19, Uni student."

"Oh, God." Sherlock said, finally allowing himself a sigh of relief. "The desk sergeant said that a child had been murdered. There are press in the bloody lobby for Christ sake, if a word got out, even though it's not true, you'd have a lawsuit on your hands."

Anderson frowned. "What are the press doing outside?"

Sherlock gave him a dithering look and Anderson swallowed, obviously understanding the reason for their sudden popularity.

Sherlock returned his attentions to Lestrade. "So what happened?" He asked, trying to get his breath back.

"He was found last night in central London, autopsy claimed it was alcohol poisoning from an excessive Christmas party. You know what students are like."

Sherlock hesitated in his tracks. "Then..." His brain quickly eliminated all other possibilities until he was presented with the only reason he would be called in. He made that leap in about a nanosecond.

"There's been a second autopsy, you've found something."

Lestrade nodded, used to Sherlock's quick, abrupt deductions, Anderson, however, looked mildly surprised.

"There was a small wound, almost unnoticeable, just below the muscle of the abdomen. It looks like a stab wound, but I have no idea..."

"Let me take a look." Sherlock said, obviously not sharing in the same despair as Lestrade and Anderson. He was out of the door and heading to the morgue in a second, hearing the pair of them follow him out. If there was a second autopsy, that explained why Anderson was hanging around.

The three of them made their way down to the morgue and when they entered, they were met by Molly Hooper, a woman Anderson had always thought was far too sweet to work at such a place.

Molly smiled at Sherlock on their way in and he touched her arm affectionately, Anderson supposed he must be grateful for any allies he had left.

Molly pulled out the boy, a man really, but he still looked young. Too young to be lying on a stretcher at Christmas.

Anderson felt for him, he really did, but Sherlock was mechanical.

He pulled out his magnifying glass from its case and began examining the slight abdomen wound without showing any kind of emotion other than an intense, entrancing concentration.

Part of Anderson couldn't believe that he was barely reacting to what was essentially a dead child in front of him whereas last year he would have been gushing along with the rest of them.

He really must have hidden himself from everyone. Anderson was almost annoyed and how easily they'd all been fooled.

Sherlock suddenly straightened and turned to them.

"You're right," he said, pocketing his magnifying glass kit. "It is a stab wound. Small, probably from a small knife or something similar. I'm no expert but I imagine he would have died from blood loss rather than internal damage. It would have happened quickly, especially if he was drunk and had high blood alcohol and especially in the cold. Was there any blood at the scene?"

"No."

"No, I doubted it. Whoever did this cleaned the mess after them. Rather proficiently as well, it would seem."

"Whoever did this?" Lestrade repeated, leaning forward slightly. "You mean it wasn't a drunken accident?"

"Oh no." Sherlock smiled in morbid interest. "Of course not. He was murdered."

…

John relaxed back in his chair and stared at the ceiling of his office. Obviously he had a ridiculous amount of work to do before Christmas, and he was procrastinating rather than taking a break, but the real reason he wasn't doing anything was because he was bored.

He relished in the fact that he didn't have to listen to Gregson anymore but having your own office rather than a cubical surrounded by other people turned out to be more lonely that peaceful some days. Along with the fact that he'd had to leave all of his friends behind when he'd left. One in particular, in fact.

At the thought, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled Sarah's number.

She picked up on the second ring.

"You know I am trying to work." She said sarcastically, smile in her voice. "Some of us lowly mortals have to do that, you know."

John laughed. He missed her already.

"How are you?" He asked.

"Bored." She admitted honestly. "Gregson has me on celebrity weddings in the snow."

John pulled a face despite the fact she couldn't see it. "Sounds like fun, I don't miss all that trivial nonsense."

"Yeah but you have to deal with petty M.P scandals and parliamentary bickering...oh, I mean debates."

John fought of a smile. "Shh. The government probably listening."

She laughed on the other end. "I'll be gone by the morning."

"Do you wanna meet up?" He asked, smiling. "Like, coffee or something? It's been an age since I've seen you."

"Yeah, absolutely." She said. "I really want to get together. I need to hear everything about Sherlock."

John rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. "Awesome, it's a date."

…

It was a date. That's what stuff like this was. John was unsure if he was excited or confused by the concept.

He lay between Sherlock's legs on the couch in his living room, surrounded by Christmas decorations and flicking through the TV until he found something sufficiently festive.

Sherlock was happily tapping away on his phone, one hand rested on John's chest and John was content.

He knew Sherlock wasn't particularly mad about Christmas but he put up with it for John's sake with only minimal complaining and John was grateful for it.

He finally paused when he found a Christmas film, the type he would generally be watching all alone but not anymore. Now he had someone to enjoy his favourite things with.

The contented silence continued on for a few moments until it became apparent that whatever Sherlock was texting about seemed to be quite important. His phone vibrated every twenty seconds or so until he shifted, taking his hand away from John completely and concentrating entirely on whatever was attracting his undivided attention.

It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had been too wrapped up in his phone, or, more accurately, one of his cases. Generally it didn't irritate John but when they'd specifically put time aside in their hectic schedules to see each other, it got to be rather annoying.

Finally, after another ten minutes of interrupted bliss, John huffed.

"Sherlock, it's ten at night. Is there a fire or something?"

"No." Sherlock replied, not recognising the irritation or indeed the sarcasm in John's voice, even his reply sounded distant. "No, no. Sorry. There's just a really interesting murder case going on right now."

John huffed, wistfully wondering when murder would become less important than him.

Sherlock, having apparently read his thoughts, quickly replied before he slipped his phone into his trouser pocket and shifted his body slightly so that he was facing him.

"Sorry." He said, pressing a kiss to John's cheek and wrapping his arms around him.

John felt suddenly guilty for having such petty thoughts, he knew Sherlock's job was important, and that invariably there were days when it would take over his life. That was just a part of who Sherlock was and if the detective was willing to sit through crappy Christmas flicks then John could show him the same consideration when it came to his job. But regardless of the fact, he still smiled as he snuggled into his boyfriend and turned back to the television. Knowing that some moments still existed in their hectic lives where Sherlock was completely and irrevocably his.

 


	3. Day 3 – Wednesday 16th December, 2015

It was a slow day at the offices of the  _Intuition,_ there was a bizarre sort of understanding that, in relation to news, things tended to die down a little at Christmas. Or, at least, become so monotonous that you barely noticed the workload underneath your fingers.

It was all the same, it had been since John had begun work as a journalist and he highly expected that it always would be.

The minute the snow started to fall, someone invariably got married, there were numerous traffic accidents and just accidents in generally that were attached to the season and all its glory and there was massive hype and charity work for underdeveloped countries.

Oh, and if you were really unlucky, you had to cover the Christmas television and music for the year that you could probably recycle from an article from last year and still manage to produce the same results.

John shuddered when he recalled trying to compare the auto-tuned number one of that year to the festive classics that warmed his soul in a way that little else could.

That was why he was grateful when he finally made it to his lunch hour. It meant a few hours less until he could leave his desk and enjoy Christmas with his family but today in particular it meant he could spent his lunch time with genuinely good company. Something he was hard-pressed to find in his new job.

The minute John got his lunch hour, he made his way to a cafe in the city centre and sat down at an empty two-seater table. He ordered two coffees and took off his gloves, shivering as he flexed his fingers, willing the blood to return to them.

This was a cafe he frequented often but right now it was barely recognisable with the tacky white Christmas tree in the corner and the decorations on the ceiling, Slade was blaring from the radio just to add to the atmosphere.

It made John smile nonetheless.

"Hey." Came a familiar voice as Sarah sat down opposite, pulling her long scarf from around her neck. Her cheeks were red and sore-looking from the blistering wind outside. He gave her a sympathetic look.

"It's bloody freezing outside." She said redundantly.

"That's probably because of the snow."

"Shut up." Sarah berated and John laughed. It made her smile. He was almost unrecognisable from the grumpy, unhappy person he'd been last year. Even though she didn't see him as much as she used to, or indeed as much as she would like; she was glad for him.

"Sooo, how's Sherlock?" She prompted, grinning as she cupped her coffee with her fingers to warm them back up again. Readying herself for tales of love and joy from one of the most annoyingly adorable couples she knew and liked to think helped to orchestrate. She remembered her own crush on Sherlock once upon a time and the thought made her blush.

John, however, completely threw her off by frowning.

"Oh my God. What happened?" She asked immediately, concern in her voice.

"Nothing's happened." John assured her quickly, keeping his voice deliberately low and leaning across the table in his urgency as if he were afraid someone was spying on them. "Nothing, I'm really happy, it's just..." He sighed again. "I feel so bad about having these doubts because Sherlock is so sweet and so lovely and I've literally had the best year of my life with him and I love him so much and..."

"Woah, woah, woah." Sarah but her hands up in an attempt to stop John's rambling. "What doubts?"

John hesitated as he seemed to become aware of what he had just said. He hadn't meant to poor the deepest, darkest thoughts from his heart to her the moment she'd sat down but the moment he saw her it seemed to be all he could think about. He realised just how desperate he was to talk to someone about it. He finally voiced something that, although obvious, lost its impact over time but was still very much relevant.

"Sherlock isn't normal."

Sarah laughed and leant back in her seat, sipping her coffee. "I thought you liked him that way. Not pretending to be someone he isn't. And not the same generic failed-relationship boyfriend-type."

"I do." John assured her, and he did. "I love him for it." He did. "It's a love that's epic and amazing and never-ending but...Sherlock is like a hurricane, he's never going to settle. He'll never want anything like a house or...or children. He'll never not be obsessed with being a detective." He sighed into his coffee. "I feel like I have to chose between the life I want and the man I love."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure you're not just inventing problems?" She asked sympathetically. "People do that when things go really well for them. Especially when they're not used it. You assume something will go wrong so your subconscious starts inventing things to go wrong just to get it out of the way so you can relax. Just let things with Sherlock play out. I'm sure he'll come 'round to your way of thinking at some point. And you have no way of knowing he'll never want those things. People change."

"But he wont, though." John said glumly.

Sarah laughed disbelievingly. "Well, I don't know. Break up with him, then. If it bothers you that much." She joked, laughing. Because it was such a ridiculous notion.

But John didn't take her comment quite as lightly.

He closed his eyes.

…

Although Sherlock's attention was focused heavily on the laptop screen in front of him and his grey eyes were scanning through the DNA files Molly had emailed him half an hour ago and going through various improbable theories in his mind, he was still aware of the things going on around him, and specifically, for example, he was aware of Mrs. Hudson pottering around in his kitchen despite her continued insistence that she didn't look after him.

"You know, you came home from work about three hours ago." Mrs. Hudson called over to him from the kitchen.

Confused, Sherlock looked up from his laptop and frowned at her. "That...was an odd observation to voice." He admitted.

"I mean, you could put the laptop down." She pointed out, hands on her hips.

_Oh._

"Oh." He turned back to his work. "I'm just busy at the moment."

He wasn't looking at her anymore, but he could see her shaking her head at him in his mind's eye. Nothing she hadn't seen before. Mrs. Hudson had been one of the few to know Sherlock's true identity when he'd been London's superhero, and had known him to work rather than eat or sleep, and sometimes even shower. But now that he was the villain and this stuff was common knowledge she still didn't let up about his welfare.

Still, she fell silent after that, and presumably continued cleaning. Before he'd given up trying, Sherlock had told her countless times she needn't bother but she never listened to him. He supposed she was just glad he hadn't disappeared off to America after all.

Still, it didn't stop him.

"I can clean later." He called out absent-mindedly, hearing her approaching footsteps.

"This century, though, Sherlock, dear?" She questioned rhetorically, walking into the living room and nearly tripping over an abandoned, damaged, upturned bunsen burner that had obviously wronged Sherlock in some way.

She sighed as she bent down to pick it up, grumbling something about being too old.

"I hope you don't make this much mess at John's flat." She scolded in that gentle, motherly way he'd never experienced growing up.

"He's not as meticulous as you." Sherlock commented, shifting focus and smiling fondly at her.

She returned the smile but it didn't disarm her. "I'm not sure how that lovely boy puts up with you." She said airily as she turned to move back to the kitchen.

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and swivelled in his chair to look at her. "What do you mean?" He asked.

"Well, John's very normal, sweetheart." She clarified. "And you're very...not. Your differences will catch up with you one day. It's the way of life. You just need the strength to overcome them."

Sherlock was sure she meant that to be a positive affirmation of their love but all it did was make the detective queasy.

He didn't want them to face some insurmountable problem in their relationship. He wanted them to continue on as happy as they were for as long as they could. Because the truth of the matter was that John was literally the only good thing in Sherlock's life at the moment. He'd never do anything to sabotage that, and he certainly didn't want his oddness to come between them, he loved John. He would do anything for him.

He supposed he had to begin acting on that.

He stared at his laptop screen for a long time, no longer interested in the murdered teenager. Of course he would give John whatever he wanted, or at least whatever he could give, but he knew that John didn't insist upon the conventional things he'd been used to seeing in the media. He didn't want riches or a expensive trips or anything capitalism had tricked Sherlock into thinking that relationships were about. Instead, he was trying to figure out a way of making his relationship with John more  _normal_ , knowing it would take more than picking up the bunsen burners he tossed about in his frustration.

That thought suddenly sparked into an idea and he came to a decision as he came to everything in his mind; quickly.

And also as with everything in his mind; he knew it was right.

He closed his laptop.

 


	4. Day 4 – Thursday 17th December, 2016

Sherlock had swooped into the offices of  _Intuition_ at closing time like a vampire bat and John nearly jumped when the detective walked into his office.

"Hey." John greeted, surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm not allowed to surprise my boyfriend?" Sherlock asked innocently, placing his hands on the desk and leaning forward to capture John's mouth in a kiss. "Come on, I'm taking you to dinner."

Over the initial surprise, John's eyebrows furrowed in accusation. "Why? What's the occasion?" He asked suspiciously.

"No occasion." Sherlock insisted, with that glint in his eye that suggested that he was lying and not being remotely subtle about it.

John, however, didn't seem to pick up on Sherlock's mischief so had no choice but to smile and graciously accept.

But inside, his stomach was flipping uncomfortably.

When Sherlock said 'take John to dinner', the now-editor had assumed he meant a gastro-pub or something similar, a quick bite and a laugh before they went home together and did...other things. John certainly wasn't expecting a full-blown French restaurant with ridiculously expensive wine where even the waiters were wearing bow ties.

As John sat opposite Sherlock at a round table with an embroidered table cloth and an unlit red candle in the centre, he felt embarrassingly under-dressed. Sherlock, clad in his usual black suit, seemed to fit in quite well.

"Pardon me, gentlemen." The waiter said, before taking the unlit red candle from the centre of the round table and removing it, Sherlock wasn't even paying attention. John frowned. He waited until Sherlock had finished perusing the menu and ordered some posh French wine he couldn't pronounce and then leant across the table to him.

"What's wrong with the candle?" He asked, genuinely confused.

Sherlock looked momentarily confused before his eyes zeroed in on the empty place where the candle had been and his clever mind apparently deduced what he'd missed before. He chuckled. "I don't think he knows you're my date." Sherlock told him.

"Oh." Said John sitting back and feeling instantly stupid before grinning. "Are we on a business meeting then?" He joked.

"In a way." Sherlock replied coyly and John narrowed his eyes.

As Sherlock continued to perused his menu, John took a moment to look at his surroundings. The walls were a deep brown and gold lights hung low from the ceiling, bathing the entire restaurant in an Autumn glow.

"How did you even get a reservation at a place like this?" John asked, slightly stunned.

"Friends in high places." Sherlock murmured.

John's gaze returned to him and he raised an eyebrow. "What? Even though you're not the incredible Sherlock Holmes anymore?"

Sherlock smiled. "Oh I'm certainly the incredible Sherlock Holmes," he assured him, "I just play to a smaller audience now."

John's heart broke and burst at the same time, because he knew, of course he knew, that Sherlock gave his whole self to him and there was a part of John that still didn't think it was enough.

Even right now. If John were any less sane than he arguably was, and any more normal, he would have made the most natural leap in human assumptions.

When your boyfriend of a year impromptu brings you to a fancy restaurant swathed in low light and is being oddly coy and mysterious, you assume he is going to pull a ring box from somewhere and propose marriage and happiness for the rest of your fairytale lives.

Interestingly, John had no idea what his reaction would be should that be the case but he didn't waste a moment thinking on it because he knew that it would never  _be_  the case. That was why he didn't make that natural human leap, because he knew Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes was already married. To his job.

Sherlock loved being a detective, and he loved London, and he loved John. And John was fairly certain it was in that order, as well.

He hadn't meant to but he'd taken Sarah's joke-advice from the day before rather seriously and had spent the whole night contemplating if he and Sherlock had a future, if their love was enough to ride out whatever the world would throw in their way. John couldn't lie to himself, he wasn't getting any younger, there were things he wanted in his life and things he was fairly sure that Sherlock Holmes, no matter how incredible, would never give him.

It wasn't even that Sherlock was an oddity incapable of human wants and desires, it was the fact that Sherlock lived in such a way that he didn't want those things. And John wouldn't want to force the best and most incredible man he'd ever known into a life of unhappiness with him just when he'd talked him out of one.

So perhaps, and even though it hurt just to think it, it was time to let him go.

John felt tears well up in his eyes at the mere concept and quickly hid behind his menu, he knew Sherlock well enough to know that if he caught one look at his face then he would immediately deduce what was wrong and John would have to do this here, in front of everyone.

Sherlock, however, was a little too preoccupied in his own thought process.

He never really made big announcements or requests, especially when it came to relationships so was unsure as to how to approach such a thing but he assumed that romantic dinners were an appropriate occasion.

Sherlock had spent the best part of the previous night thinking about Mrs. Hudson's comments, about how drifting along wasn't going to keep John forever. John wanted more in his life, Sherlock could see it in his eyes. Perhaps a year ago Sherlock would have simply concluded that he wasn't that way inclined and John should just find someone more suited to his needs but now...he'd spent time with John, he loved John, he wanted John in his life and had only just realised that perhaps he needed to give just a little more.

It wasn't necessarily as major as he was making it out to be but he'd come to the conclusion that he was going to ask John to move in with him.

He liked having John around and knew that John preferred 221B to his flat, always complaining that 221B was bigger and nicer and nearer to his office, and Sherlock was more than willing to give him everything he had.

Plus the thought of waking up with the love of his life's arms wrapped around him every morning for the foreseeable future was more than a little appealing. Suddenly energised, Sherlock put his menu down and noticed the moisture teasing the sides of John's eyes.

"John, are you okay?" He asked, concerned.

John didn't immediately reply, instead, he remained silent for a long moment before he sighed. He looked up at Sherlock's expectant face.

"Actually, Sherlock, there's something I need to tell you." He said, despite every fibre of his being telling him that he was making a huge mistake.

"Yeah, so do I." Sherlock said, sounding suddenly nervous.

"I..."

"I think...you should move in with me."

John blinked, hard, and it took his brain a moment to process. All he could do was stare at Sherlock's distractingly innocent expression.

"I...what do you mean?" He finally asked.

Sherlock laughed gently and his cheeks tinged. "We've been together for a while now." He admitted honestly, playing nervously with his cutlery. "And...I know I'm not...normal..."

"Oh, Sherlock..."

"No, no, I know I'm not. You taught me to be myself and I've never felt more free...and I owe you so much and I need to show you, I want to show you that I'm capable of that kind of commitment. I know it's only baby steps but I'd love it if you wanted to call 221B 'home'...with me."

John couldn't precisely pinpoint what he was feeling. He was relieved and overwhelmed but most of all, he was in love.

He was in love with the beautiful man blushing opposite him. Sherlock's speech reminded him of everything they'd had to go through to be together in the first place, and just how horrible it had been for John when he thought Sherlock was leaving for America and yet here he was actually about to send him away?

_You're an idiot._ He told himself.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked after a while.

"I think it's a brilliant idea." John admittedly honestly, watching as Sherlock physically deflated in relief. John reached his hand across the table and held Sherlock's tightly, simply refusing to let go ever again.

"Do you want the candle back?" Sherlock asked, grinning, and John laughed despite himself. It was a joyful, glorious sound. And Sherlock knew now, he understood now that it wasn't his life with John in it; it was  _their_  life. The life they shared. Together.

He'd never spent his life with anyone before, not even his family, he'd never even thought he would have.

But right now he was grateful to have the chance.

 


	5. Day 5 – Friday 18th December, 2015

"You know, I'm not tired or anything." John grumbled as Sherlock led him through a crowd of people in the minus degrees of central London on Friday evening. Unfortunately for John, all of the work he'd been procrastinating so masterfully had finally caught up with him. "It's not like I've been up since seven this morning. Some of us have important jobs."

"Oi." Sherlock retorted, grinning. "Anyway, Mr. Important, I'm sure you'll come to forgive me."

John regarded Sherlock with joking suspicion, aware that his acceptance of Sherlock's proposal, as it were, had put the detective in a perpetually good mood.

John wasn't complaining.

So John allowed Sherlock to lead him through the crowd of people clad in mittens and scarves until it parted like the red sea to reveal a large, rectangular ice skating rink erected above them.

John's eyes widened as he took in the people skating happily around, lights hanging overhead making a pool of light in the otherwise darkened world and illuminating the white ice so it looked magical.

"What's this?" He asked, vaguely stunned.

"I deduce it's an ice skating rink."

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, thanks, Detective. Impress stuff. What is it?"

Sherlock stifled a laugh. "This is me immersing us in the Christmas spirit." He admitted, rather smugly.

John nudged him. "I thought you were a Grinch."

"Oh, I am." Sherlock assured him, nodding profusely. "But I'm allowed to indulge my boyfriend every once in a while."

John smiled, he couldn't help himself, but at the same time he felt guilty. Sherlock was going to so much effort to make him happy and he felt bad about it, like Sherlock somehow subconsciously knew that John had had doubts and instead of being angry he was trying his best to make up for it. Like he was blaming himself instead of John.

"I don't deserve you." John found himself saying.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but wrapped an arm around him regardless. John liked having Sherlock's arms around him, he liked the safety and the comfort and the warmth and wished, ardently, that Sherlock would never let go.

…

John had only ever ice skated once before. He was twelve and his mum and dad, before he'd died, had taken him and Harry to a rink in Cornwall and John had spent most of his time falling over on the ice because he had no natural balance and Harry had spent most of the time clutching at the rail because she'd been laughing so much.

It turned out that the years had not improved his natural talent.

He clutched the side precariously, the pressure in his ankles threatening to topple him. Again.

John wasn't embarrassed, he was an adult who was aware of his limits and wasn't exactly going to enter the winter Olympics, not to mention the fact that he was so immersed in keeping himself upright that he didn't have room in his brain for embarrassment, but he had to admit that the whole affair would have been vaguely easier to stomach had Sherlock not been just as proficient in skating as he was in every other aspect of his life.

Sherlock came to a graceful stop in front of him, jutting his skates out to the side in a professional manner as if he'd had training.

"You okay?" The surprisingly graceful detective asked, fighting off a smile.

John frowned. "Have you done this before?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before joining him at the side. "My parents used to drag us out to France and Mycroft insisted on ice skating."

"That sounds incredible." John mumbled, trying to keep his footing.

"Not really." Sherlock shrugged. "I was always too busy hiding away with my chemistry experiments."

John's mind drifted as he tried to imagine that child, sequestering himself away from his parents and Mycroft for the benefit of science. John wondered if that child ever considered that one day he would be asking his boyfriend to move in with him and celebrating Christmas in the snow.

Sherlock was changing, and John knew he was the one making it happen. He was the one making Sherlock happier, he felt oddly proud.

"What are you smiling about?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head. "Nothing. Just happy."

Sherlock returned the smile, leaning forward and kissing him gently on the nose.

"I don't see why." The detective whispered against his skin. "Because you'll just be on your arse again in five minutes."

With that, he took off like a bullet in a dramatic flurry of ice that sprayed John, causing him to unexpectedly lose his precarious balance and hit the floor again.

It was in that moment that John Watson vowed that, once he regained his balance, he would be the one to kill Sherlock Holmes.

…

John fell happily into 221B after their cab ride back home, clutching his sopping jacket tightly around himself as he heard Sherlock closing the door casually behind him.

John ran to the bathroom and ripped his cold jacket from his cold body, immediately finding one of the dark towels in the airing cupboard and wrapping it around himself.

Feeling minutely more comfortable but with his teeth still chattering, John made his way back to the living area to find Sherlock in the kitchen, putting the kettle on. He'd taken his suit jacket off and was clad in the purple shirt that was far too tight for him but John never found himself complaining.

He grinned as he watched the detective making tea, imagining how it would be like, both waking up early and grumbling in the morning, preparing to go off to their respective jobs and Sherlock, in his navy dressing gown, would smile sleepily at him as he made them tea.

"John?"

John blinked and looked at Sherlock staring quizzically at him.

"Sorry." John said, shaking his head as if to clear it. "I was just...a million miles away."

Sherlock smiled gently as he pressed a warm mug into John's hand and the now-editor physically shivered.

Sherlock chuckled and pulled on a corner of the towel, leading John to the living room. The pair collapsed down onto Sherlock's large armchair, wrapped around each other as if they were part of the same person.

John snuggled gratefully into the detective's warmth, as if he were his very own heater. Sherlock allowed John to slip his frosty hands into his own. He winced but it was worth it.

"You know, you're not really supposed to sunbathe on a floor of ice." Sherlock pointed out.

John sent him a dithering look. "Shut up, I just need a bit of practice, that's all."

"I'll take you to the French resort I was telling you about, if you like." Sherlock said, wrapping his arms tighter around John and settling happy.

John smiled as he warmed up.

"Thank you, for tonight." He said. "I had fun, I love being with you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, you're about to be with me a whole lot more."

"Yeah." John said. "I can't believe I'm moving in. That's so bizarre. I've never lived with anyone before."

"No, neither have I." Sherlock said, "unless Mrs. Hudson counts, obviously."

John laughed and kissed Sherlock earnestly, feeling the detective smile against his lips as he kissed him back.

John had once thought that he'd never get tired of kissing Sherlock Holmes, and it had turned out that he was right. Sherlock never kissed like John expected him to, his mouth was always soft and persistent against his own, and no matter how many afternoons they spent wrapped up in each other, John would never get used to it. He wished he never would.

John moaned as Sherlock opened his mouth with his own, sighing as he felt the detective's tongue tangling wetly with his own.

He tried to moan out Sherlock's name but all that came out was a breathy jumble of sounds.

Sherlock pressed him down into the armchair and John felt Sherlock's weight hovering over him but didn't allow the detective to break the embrace for a single second, too lost in the hot, heavy feeling of Sherlock pressed against him.

"Oh, I didn't know you boys were back. I didn't hear the door go."

John was suddenly met with Sherlock's grey eyes staring at him before the detective manoeuvred himself from John and he was finally able to see Mrs. Hudson picking their abandoned mugs from the coffee table.

Sherlock perched awkwardly on the end of the chair, blush even more prominent on his alabaster skin, and John actually found himself grinning.

"You said 'obviously'." He knocked Sherlock's arm playfully.

Sherlock shook his head before breaking out into a small smile of his own.

The pair giggled quietly as Mrs. Hudson gave them a strange look and went into the kitchen. The moment her back was turned, Sherlock shot up and dragged John with him. John left the towel on the chair and allowed himself to be manhandled into what would soon be  _their_ bedroom.

A natural writer, John wanted to make a witty remark, but didn't have the chance as Sherlock pinned him to the door the moment it was shut.

John wasn't complaining.

 


End file.
